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<title>The Fire Under Your Feet by MoanDiary</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346381">The Fire Under Your Feet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary'>MoanDiary</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lucifer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Study, F/M, Feelings, Season/Series 04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:08:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>666</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346381</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>But in the quiet of the night, while Eve sleeps softly beside him, his traitorous heart longs for another.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Eve/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>173</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Fire Under Your Feet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eve is sweet, sweeter than ambrosia. With a manner as mild as a spring day, the face of a woodland nymph, and a voice like a cool mountain brook, no one could find fault with her, least of all him. </p><p>She fills his days with excitement and pleasure. Together they do everything he loves best—they party for hours, bring endless eager, desirous souls up to his penthouse to play. They eat and drink and imbibe to extreme excess.</p><p>But in the quiet of the night, while Eve sleeps softly beside him, his traitorous heart longs for another. His thoughts stray to a blue gaze flashing sharply, a sour frown, a frustrated sigh, a loud snore, of eyes rolling skywards. Thinks about fights over everything from petty annoyances to deeply-held beliefs, thinks of a will of iron that cannot be bent by even the Devil’s persuasion.</p><p>Eve sees him, and knows him, and welcomes him into her embrace nonetheless. She regards his monstrosity with the wisdom and equanimity of millennia, in the context of a lifelong knowledge of the divine. She has never feared him, and never will. She does not ask him to change, simply to be who he’s always been.</p><p>But he thinks sometimes about how much he <em>has</em> changed these scant past few years, and what made him change. The idea of earning the respect of someone who disbelieved everything he claimed, everything but the deepest truth of his soul, the part he never shared. Someone who told him once that she knew who he really was. Someone who recoiled when the mask finally came off, and tore free a piece of his heart in the process, a wound that festers endlessly now.</p><p>Sometimes, in the heat and excitement of a dance, during the bliss of a high, or while he’s ensconced between eager thighs, he feels suddenly,<em> deeply, </em>tired. He finds his mind wandering to a quiet apartment near the beach—imagines a blonde head bent close to a smaller brunette one over a piece of homework or a board game or a tiresome children’s book. For a brief while there was a place for him there, he thinks. He had a chance to walk through that door and for her to look up and smile. And oh, her smile is sweet. It cuts him to the core even now, even after all the pain they’ve caused each other.</p><p>Eve won’t change, he thinks. Not in this strange second life that her primacy affords her. And even if she did, he doesn’t believe she’d be less beautiful. She needs no makeup or artifice; she’s womanhood at its purest: God’s own interpretation of feminine beauty. They could frolic together in a life of perfect excess, two beautiful immortals, for the rest of time. </p><p>The Detective is tired these days. He thinks about it endlessly, counts the slow multiplication of wrinkles around her eyes, the way her lips thin into a grim line. He never sees her with her shields down now, and it was rare before. Her ponytails tight and severe—she allows not a single hair out of place. Her makeup is never smudged or smeared or less than impeccable. He no longer allows himself the fantasy of watching her wash her face clean and let her hair down into messy golden waves before slipping into his bed, raw and aging and vulnerable and nothing but herself.</p><p>He wonders if the same thoughts plague her. He tells himself he is well-pleased with Eve and a dark part of him wants her to see Eve’s perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect acceptance. He wants her to see his perfect relationship, even as longs for her hard, pragmatic imperfection, for her scarred and familiar heart. He can see his words landing like blows when he boasts of their latest adventure, latest party, latest orgy. He is grimly satisfied that at least in this pain, they are united.</p><p>He has everything, and he doesn’t want it.</p>
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